


Shards

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama, Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-20
Updated: 2005-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder has a skeleton in his closet. Or doesn't he? Angst-O-Rama.





	Shards

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Shards

### Shards

#### by Griva

  


Shards  
Rating: R  
Summary: Mulder has a skeleton in his closet. Or does he? Angst-O-rama. 

* * *

Strolling...you know the feeling of rolling down hill knowing exactly when you want... 

And not getting it. 

I pick up my mail and surprise my sixty seven year old neighbor Mr. Bloom by engaging into a discussion regarding the possible reasons of Bird Flu pandemic in Asia, but to no avail. 

Today's sunshine was the sickest sunshine I have ever seen... So when I'm at home, I don't even bother to lift the blinds. 

I sit here trying desperately to distract myself from my thoughts of you. The TV is on all the time. I pour boiling water over instant noodles and burn my fingers. Putting them in my mouth and sucking doesn't do me good, the cold water helps, but a sliver of delicious pain lingers. I feel its hotness all over my body...rush after rush... trying to explain something to me... I brought some files from work: moth-men, infanticide, levitation, do vampires have alliumphobia...I pick up a book - *Six Not-so-easy Pieces: Einstein's Relativity, Symmetry and Space-time* - and start reading it and the words blur. The important concept of symmetry in physical laws makes me think...not about physics at all. I am unsuccessful in every attempt to ignore you. 

It seems so illogical... so unnecessary... 

I fling the book at the standing lamp. I miss and curse out loud. I feel myself twist internally. My mind writhes and I cringe. I am unable to stop the various images of us bombarding my mind. I put my hand to my mouth to try and stifle a moan. I double as my stomach feels stuffed with pine needles. 

No one else has ever succeeded in doing this to me. I've never had to stop myself from moaning aloud at mere thoughts of someone before. You've got me under such a spell, even if you don't mean to. 

I nearly wrote your name on my mirror. 

I'm spending the next 3 hours listening to Beethoven's fifth... staring at the shattered glass... and thinking about you like an idiot... 

The images become increasingly more graphic. My mental writhing turns physical. My fingers curl into the sheets of my bed. Yes, I even went to lie on my dusty bed because... I just remembered it's a double bed. I pull at the sheets, as if by pulling at them I can pull away the thoughts of you. 

...and I want it - you - so badly... yet I feel impotent and deranged just thinking about you. 

So close... 

My breathing increases and my face has contorts with the concentration I'm putting into trying to stop myself. Another moan escapes me. I know I'm weak. I can't do anything to stop it. 

The only one who can relieve me. The only one who can put my mind and my body at ease. The only one who also knows what a painful addiction this is, is ... you. 

I want him...you and if this is not the truth I do not know what is... 

I hate you. 

You traitor. 

To you I am nothing, aren't I? Just a disillusioned, fucked up romanticist... a nut falling so fast you can imagine... 

But... 

It's okay, I forgive you... 

Four long steps, unlock the door... 

You are so pale. Asleep? 

Say something...please. 

Here... Let me peel off the duct tape. 

/end? 

PS: alliumphobia - fear of garlic 

May 31st, 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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